


Semper Fi

by ivyfic



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, College, Gen, What-If
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-01-04
Updated: 2007-01-04
Packaged: 2017-10-16 21:58:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/169775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivyfic/pseuds/ivyfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Things go differently after the fire in Lawrence. Very differently.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Semper Fi

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [](http://trakkie.livejournal.com/profile)[**trakkie**](http://trakkie.livejournal.com/) for the beta, even if her computer was dead set against ever letting her email me her comments.

Dean dropped his duffel on the floor. It thudded softly, camo green with a stenciled WINCHESTER along the side. "Dean!" Sam smiled, dimples creasing his cheek like he was still nine years old.

"Hey, bro!" Dean said and shut the door to his brother’s dorm room behind him. "C’mere." He stretched his arms for a hug.

When Sam got in range, loping like a puppy, Dean reached over his outstretched arms to grapple his neck. Sam might have a few inches on him, but Dean was damned if he couldn’t still lick his brother when he wanted to. Sam had never been much for fighting, much to his older brother's shame. Sam squawked and batted at his arms, no more effective than he’d ever been at fending Dean off. Dean had him in a headlock and was administering a noogie in less than a minute. "Sammy," he said happily.

"Dean, come on, man! Don’t I get an exemption once I’m old enough to buy cigarettes and porn?"

"Nope, wait—" Dean jerked him around absently, as if he was thinking about it. "Definitely still my little brother." He released Sam then grabbed him in a real hug.

"How long've you got?" Sam asked as soon as he released.

"I'm on a two-day pass and just spent ten hours of it on a Greyhound bus to get here from Camp Pembleton, so that means I've got just enough time for…" he glanced at his watch, flipping open the velcro tab that hid the face. "It's late enough for happy hour, right?"

Sam shook his head, absently patting down the hair Dean had ruffled. "It's four o'clock, Dean."

"Just what I said. Wait—you are over twenty-one now, right?" Dean said in mock confusion. "You are actually _allowed_ to drink now, right?"

Sam huffed. "You'd think you'd remember dragging me to every bar in Palo Alto. Or at least the hangover."

"Oh, yeah," Dean said tilting his head back. "And there was that waitress, what was her name, the one with the really bouncy—"

Sam swatted his brother on his shoulder. "I thought you were still stationed in Iraq."

"We're shipping out again next week. But time's a-wasting." Dean quickly sniffed his armpit. "Mmmm. Eau de exhaust. Just give me a few minutes to shower and we can head out."

"Wait—are you here to see me or the co-eds?"

Dean looked scandalized. "I am here to see my only flesh and blood! Besides," he said, unzipping his duffel, "can't I see both?"

~*~

Sam and Dean walked out into the warm afternoon fifteen minutes later. Dean had switched his BDUs for a pair of well-worn jeans and a black t-shirt. Sam couldn't help thinking that his brother must've chosen it to show off his pecs – and the sleeves were just short enough for the tattoo of an eagle clutching a banner saying, "Semper Fidelis," to stand out on his bicep. Sam shook his head. Vanity, thy name is Dean.

"So," Dean said with over-dramatic enthusiasm, "how are classes? Still making the honor roll?"

"Shut up."

"Egghead."

"I'm thinking of applying to law school. I've got a few interviews on Monday. If I keep my grades up, who knows. I might get a free ride." Sam dug his hands into the pockets of his jean jacket.

"Lawyer, huh?" Dean said. "Y'always did talk too much."

"Well, I don't know—I don't want to get my hopes up."

"Oh, don't worry, Sammy, I know going to Stanford was a major disappointment but I'm sure if you put your nose to the grindstone you could get into an Ivy League this time."

"Says the kid who dropped out of high school."

"I can't have hopes and dreams for my baby brother?" Dean mussed his hair again and they walked for a bit in silence.

"You, uh," Sam started, "You been to see Mom and Dad since you've been stateside?" Dean grimaced and looked at the sidewalk. "Come on, Dean, it's been years. You could at least call."

"Naw," Dean said.

When Sam reached toward his pocket to pull out his cell phone, Dean shook his head. "They always ask me how you're doing."

"That's nice."

Sam's face reddened. "Come on, man! Can't you swallow your pride and at least give Mom a call?"

"She's not my Mom! I had a Mom, and it ain't her." Dean burst out.

"Then what do you call the people who raised you?"

"Uh," Dean said with enough attitude to get him a round of push-ups on base. "Sandy and Gill?"

Sam made a sound halfway between frustration and disgust.

Dean glanced at his watch again. "Oh, look—I've been here for less than an hour and I'm already getting the gratitude lecture." He looked at Sam pointedly. "Again." Sam just rolled his eyes and held his tongue. "I'm not saying that I'm not grateful for them adopting us, I am, but—they're two very nice people, but they're not our parents."

"Right, right," Sam said. "And I'm just being disloyal to our real parents by calling the Tuckers Mom and Dad, and," he gasped theatrically, "I even go by their last name! I'm sure John and Mary are ashamed of me."

"No, that's not—" Sam stopped his brother on the sidewalk. The sun was just beginning to set and the streetlights hadn't come on yet, making the light strange and flat. Dean always mistrusted the twilight—it was this time of day when your eyes lied to you about distances and angles and made everything about fighting much more dangerous. Sam's face in front of him was a mask and the light wasn't helping. "It's different for you. You were too little. You don't remember them."

"I don't remember what _real_ love feels like so it's OK that I take this pathetic imitation. Thanks, Dean."

"I just can't think of them that way, OK? I just never fit the way you did. That's why I enlisted—you weren't even in high school yet, I don't know if you remember the fights I got into with the old man."

Sam started walking again, his anger dying away. He loved his brother but they'd never seen eye to eye on this. He thought being a good son was making the Tuckers proud of him. Dean thought it meant following in John Winchester's footsteps. "I thought you enlisted cause Cindy Fitzgerald's dad caught the two of you in his daughter's bedroom."

"Yeah, that too."

~*~

Dean and Sam were holding down a corner table at The Nut House two hours later. It was a Saturday night, so students were already swarming, despite the early hour. A game of beer pong was starting up across the room, which would explain why the rough-hewn floor was always a bit sticky.

Sam hadn't spent a whole lot of time with his brother since he'd run off to join the marines almost nine years ago. They wrote and called often enough, but the conversations always seemed to go the same direction and tonight was no exception. They'd already had the obligatory fight over the Tuckers, which was followed by an in-depth discussion of professional sports, then Dean talked about ammo, which made Sam's eyes glaze over, and Sam talked about school which made Dean's eyes glaze over. Dean leered at a few women and they reminisced about their childhood in Linwood, Kansas. Sam remembered his older brother as a hero back then, like James Dean. He was cooler and braver than Sam could ever be, pulling stunts that made their Dad's hair go white. Now looking back he realized his brother must have been hell on wheels, a discipline problem from the moment the Tuckers took them in.

It had taken over a year after the fire for them to find a foster family willing to adopt both of them, and Sam had never been more thankful for anything in his life. He thought Dean owed the Tuckers, even if just for that.

Dean swished back his bottle of beer, planting it, empty, back on the table. "Man, you remember Mr. Finch?" he said. "You had him for chemistry, too, right?"

"Eighth grade," Sam said. Right before Dean left. "Yeah."

"Grinch Finch. Always looked like he'd blown something up in his face, made his hair stand straight out behind him." He laughed, and stole Sam's beer for another swallow. Sam didn't even bother trying to object. "Or maybe it was just a bad comb over."

"I ran into him last Christmas, when I was home," Sam said.

"Really?"

"Don't you remember—he's a deacon at Trinity Presbyterian."

"Oh, yeah," Dean said, shaking his head. "God, I think I blocked all that out." He shuddered.

"I told him you were in the marines. He nearly had a heart attack. He was sure you were dead in a ditch somewhere."

"Can't go being predictable, now can I."

"He asked me to thank you for your service."

"Really?" Dean said incredulously. "Even after I set fire to the lab by dropping white-hot magnesium into the waste paper bin?"

"Yup."

"Well ain't that something," Dean said, then swiveled to watch the ass of the waitress walking past.

~*~

Pushing on one in the morning, Sam finally convinced his brother to unplant his ass from the bench. Dean had far too much invested in his macho image to want to leave so early, but Sam knew he'd regret it if he got back to base with no sleep but what he grabbed on the bus.

Dean barely wavered on his feet, despite the number of bottles on the table. "I tell ya," he said as they stepped out into the sudden stillness of the night. He breathed deeply. "There is something to be said for not having sand up your nose all the time. When you blow your nose over there, it's _black_."

"That's a really lovely image, man, thanks for that."

"Just letting you know the sacrifices I make to keep you," he thumped Sam on the chest with his forefinger, "and all free-thinking Americans safe."

"Hey," he said when they'd walked a bit further, loose-limbed and buzzed from the alcohol and the noise of the bar. "Did I tell you I ran into one of Dad's old drill sergeants? Said I didn't look a thing like him—Dad looked like a bear. Must be all Mom."

Sam smiled at him. Dean rolled his head back and looked up at the stars. "Said I'd done my duty with distinction. Dad'd be proud."

Dean was grinning like a loon. Sam slung an arm around Dean's neck and pulled him off-balance. Sam knew how much that would mean to his brother—just a passing mention that their real father would be proud from someone who had probably barely known him. Dean must be drunker than he looked to tell Sam about it.

"Hey," Sam said softly. "What do you remember from that night? You know—the fire."

Dean's smile disappeared and he slipped out from under Sam's arm. "Why'd you want to talk about that?"

"I was just…wondering."

"I don't know what to tell you, Sammy. I was four, it's pretty jumbled." Sam just waited in silence. Dean stopped and leaned against a brick wall running beside the sidewalk, turning to look at his brother. "I remember waking up and not knowing why, and then I heard Dad yelling and went out in the hall. There were flames all along the ceiling, it was hot as hell. Then Dad put you in my arms and told me to take you outside. And then I ran outside. The end."

"You carried me out?" Sam asked. "You never told me that."

"Yeah. How'd you think you got out? Wings?"

"I guess I didn't think about it too much. Just figured it was a firefighter."

"No, they didn't come till later. I remember…standing on the grass and my feet getting wet from the dew. I waited for Mom and Dad to come out but they didn't." He shrugged. "Some social worker or something tried to take you to get checked for smoke inhalation. I'm pretty sure I bit her."

Sam snorted.

"Why the sudden morbid fascination?" Dean asked.

"I don't know. I just keep thinking, you know, why a fire? I looked at the newspaper articles. They all say it started in the ceiling of the nursery. I mean, isn't that weird? And it was twenty years ago, they weren't as good at detecting arson—"

"Whoa, whoa, Sammy—arson? It was an electrical fire."

"That's what police reports put when they aren't sure what caused a fire. I mean, they have to put something, right?"

"Wait—"

"And I just keep having this feeling that _something_ was there, _something_ started the fire."

Dean's eyebrows drew together. "Look, I know where you're coming from, Sammy, but the only person responsible for that fire was some fucking electrician, and believe me, I would hunt him down myself if I didn't think he's probably been dead for thirty years."

"That's not—this isn't about revenge, Dean," Sam said.

"It isn't?"

"I just want to know what happened."

Dean sighed. "You know what happened. Shit happens. Bad things happen to good people. God works in mysterious ways, blah, blah, blah." Dean started walking back towards Sam's dorm again, the earlier languor from the alcohol gone.

Sam followed. If he didn't get this out now, he thought, he never would. "I've been having dreams about it, lately."

"You had a lot of nightmares when you were little, you remember? It's probably just stress. Law school applications and all that."

"No, these are different. They're more real somehow." Dean didn't say anything so Sam continued. "It's like I'm lying down in bed looking up at the ceiling and there's a woman on the ceiling, in a white night gown. She looks afraid. She's bleeding from her stomach; the blood's dripping on my forehead. And then there's a fireball, and she just burns up in the flames."

"Wow." Dean said, after a pause. "I'm glad I'm not _your_ shrink."

"I think it's Mom. Mary."

Dean looked sideways at him. "Do you have any idea how nuts you sound?"

"I guess."

"You know, Sam, I always used to think it was my fault. That I could've saved them if I'd wanted to. If I'd just stayed put when Dad told me to run outside that he'd've had to come with me, and he'd've lived."

"That's crazy, Dean! You were four. How were you supposed to save a 200 pound ex-Marine?"

"Exactly. And you were six months old. You think you're remembering something from when you were an infant, lying in the crib?"

"I guess it sounds a little nuts."

"A little, yeah. Don't they teach you about false memory syndrome in your Psych 101 course?"

"Skipped that one. Took Abnormal Psychology for my distro instead."

"Well, that's fitting." Dean hunched his shoulders, beginning to look cold in just his t-shirt. "You're about to have some interviews that'll determine your entire life. And it'll be twenty-two years on Monday. That's all it is. Trust me."

"Yeah," Sam said. "I'm sure you're right."

"Course I am," Dean said and bumped companionably into Sam's shoulder as they continued the walk across campus.

~*~

Dean was clean-shaven and freshly showered by eight the next morning, looking only slightly red-eyed for sleeping on his bed roll on Sam's floor. He lifted the duffle bag and fiddled with the strap uneasily for a moment.

"When are you going to be back in the states?" Sam asked.

Dean shrugged. "Don't know. Send me some more of that Kool-Aid in the next package. Oh, and can you stick in some cigarettes?"

"I thought you quit."

"I did, but they're good for playing poker."

"You sure you're in the marines, not just some high-security prison somewhere?"

"But if I was in prison, nobody would shoot at me, and where'd the fun in that be?" Dean smirked. "Hey—good luck on those interviews. I'm sure you'll kill 'em."

"God, I hope not."

Dean grabbed Sam for a hug, arms squeezing like steel bands around Sam's ribs. He let go quickly. "Next time I drop in on a Saturday afternoon I better see a nice piece of ass sharing that bed with you or I'm going to think this whole 'college is the best years of your life' thing is a crock."

"Right."

Dean headed towards the door. "Be careful over there," Sam said when he crossed the threshold. Dean reached back to cuff him one on the ear, then strode quickly down the hall and out of Sam's reach.

**Author's Note:**

> To try to make sure that I didn't make a complete ass out of myself when talking about the Marines, I did some research in a textbook from VMI a friend leant me. And I have to say, some of these division mission statements _make no sense at all._ They're words, they're English, but the way they're strung together...I apologize for any inaccuracies about the Marines that occurred as a result of my inability to make sense of it.


End file.
